Page 43 of Hoax and Kisses
“No sex.” I tick on another one.
I need to give this project all my focus if I want to pull it off, and god knows the memories of sleeping with him are already seared into my eyelids. Whowouldn’twant a surprise midnightrerun of the best sex of their life: lumberjack edition? Night after night, it’s as if my brain says, “You know what’ll help you sleep? A very detailed scene-by-scene of the one night you’re trying to forget.”
My heart rate picks up like a drum in my chest, but I will it to calm down.
No. Safer this way. Plus, we all know mixing business and pleasure never ends well.
“I think we can manage to convince people without it,” he agrees. He’s still wearing that smirk, but the rasp in his tone gives it another edge.
Is my face on fire? I really feel like it is. It’s these damn sweaters I bought. I’m not used to being stuffed into woolens and scarves and leg warmers. And I’m definitely not used to talking about my dating life this way.
Pretenddating life.
Which, really, isn’t all that different from the actual thing.
“How much public display of affection is necessary?” I ask, lifting my chin, desperate to regain a little composure.
“We can keep it to a minimum.” Matt sets the pen down, as if his answer requires all his focus. “I don’t think we should force it too much, but we also need people to believe we’re together. When we’re in public, we should get physical to some degree. Holding hands and light touches, like a soft press on your back or your arm. Do you think you can manage that?”
I nod. I can’t trust myself to speak right now. Not when his words are conjuring images of his rough hands on my bare back and all the things he did afterward.
Gosh, before Matt, when was the last time I had honestly good sex? Carefree, unbridled, addictive sex? Our night together might have been intense and rushed, but I can’t think of any other moments in my life where I felt so in tune with someone else’s body.
“Zoey?” Matt watches me like he’s waiting for something. “Does that sound good to you?”
Does what sound good to me? Fuck. This one-night stand will haunt me forever, won’t it?
“Yes,” I reply without asking him to repeat himself. I’m sure his request was perfectly reasonable.
He keeps his focus fixed on me for a second, and my cheeks grow hotter. But then he looks back at the paper and reads.
“No kissing, no sex. Touching is okay. We’ll attend every town event together to make the relationship believable, and we’ll talk up your project when it feels appropriate. Did I miss anything?”
“Nope, you covered everything.”
He scans the small paper. “Ah. I forgot to add my nonnegotiables. No personal questions, and family is off-limits.”
I frown. This firm, unbending tone is so at odds with the playful banter from a few seconds ago. It immediately puts me on guard. What is he protecting so fiercely?
“Shouldn’t we go over at least the basic personal stuff so, you know, we pass for a real couple? What if someone asks me when your birthday is or how many siblings you have? This is info I need to have.”
Not that I’ve ever fake dated before. I don’t actually know the requisites for a successful fake dating experience, but getting to know one’s fake boyfriend seems like a fundamental first step to me.
“Okay,” Matt says, bracing his elbows on the table. “I’m the oldest of two, and my parents have been married for thirty years and are still together. I’m closer to my father. My relationship with my mother isn’t bad, just complicated. Daphne’s Wildflowers is named after my sister, who’s thirteen. I’ve had the store for five years, and before that, I worked in landscaping for the town of Pine Falls. I spent most of mychildhood in Nova Scotia. We moved here because of my father’s job when I was seventeen, and I haven’t left since. No college degree, and Lola, James, Oliver, and Charlee are like my family. I’ve had one serious relationship in my life, and it didn’t end well. That’s all you need to know.” He settles back in his chair. “You want to share?”
My mind is reeling. He’s thrown all kinds of information at me, yet none of it contains any real substance. A thousand and one questions race through my brain, curiosity prickling my skin like an itch I desperately need to scratch. But from the way his arms are crossed over his chest and the bluntness of his delivery, it’s clear the subject is closed. I’m not going to get anything out of him.
At least not right now.
“I’m an only child,” I say, taking his lead. “My parents are divorced, so I’ve never really known them together. My mother spends her days in her garden, which is why I’ve always loved flowers. My father has been working tirelessly all his life. I get along with both of them well, but our dynamics are very different. I was born and raised in Vancouver. Six months ago, my relationship ended, and as you know, he didn’t have very nice things to say about me.”
I’m painfully aware of how little I have to say. Even if I hadn’t condensed my life to the briefest of points, virtually nothing would stand out. It’s all work, work, work. And I can’t share a big part of myself with Matt without alienating him. He already hates my father. No need to rub it in his face.
But if I could, I’d tell him that I started working here and there for my father when I was sixteen. I’d tell him that changed my relationship with him forever. That my dad traded in his role as a father for one of a corporate executive. That I initially followed in my mother’s footsteps and studied pediatric nursing, but that my father’s influence was inevitable and lethal to mydevelopment. That I don’t even remember the woman I was before he sank his claws into me.
“All right, then.” Matt splays his hands on the table, his voice startling me from my thoughts. “I think that covers the personal questions segment.”
“You know,” I say, “if we want to pull this off, you’re gonna need to act like you actually like me.”
